Redbeard
by AlessNox
Summary: "Remember Redbeard," Mycroft said, and Sherlock sobered. He didn't want that to happen to John Watson. In Sherlock's life, Redbeard was only one of the casualties.
1. Chapter 1

"Three counts of sexual misconduct with a minor, and one of assaulting an officer in Her Majesty's police force. These are not charges that can be simply dropped." Mycroft Holmes said to the dark-haired ambassador as they sat together sharing a sherry in the dimly lit parlor.

"Why not? I thought that was the very meaning of _diplomatic immunity_."

"But diplomatic immunity is for diplomats, not their sons."

The ambassador took a sip from his crystal goblet before smiling at Mycroft with the teeth of a crocodile. "But can't we just stretch the rules a bit given that you and I are such good friends."

"Friendship means nothing to a court of law. I believe the usual sentence for this kind of crime is about ten years or so?"

"But the boy is young!"

"Not young enough."

"But in the interest of peace between our two countries, can't we come to some sort of agreement, for family?"

"Well, the judge might be persuaded to dismiss the charges if our countries relationship were a just a bit closer. There is the matter of a Uranium ore agreement between you and the Russians. If you could perhaps cancel that agreement."

"But the Russians are our allies!"

"What are allies when weighed against one's family?" Mycroft said. He took a sip and the dark sherry stained his lips red, one of which crooked up in a smile as he said, "Family, it's all we have in the end."

Mycroft ignored the phone buzzing in his pocket, until he saw the ambassador's eyes drop minutely, and he knew that he had won. He looked at the screen then and frowned.

"If you would excuse me for a moment, Ambassador," he said closing the door carefully behind him before answering the call.

"What's happened?"

"It's your brother, sir. He's been shot!"

Mycroft pushed off from the door rushing toward the exit.

"Where?" he asked.

"He's enroute to the hospital."

"Have the car meet me out back, now!"

"But the ambassador?"

"Hang the ambassador. I want that car ready to go when I get there. I'll want minute by minute reports."

"Yes, Sir."

The door opened, and Mycroft Holmes entered the car while it was still moving. His assistant climbed into the seat beside the driver and they were off. She was texting Bright to take over the negotiations. He couldn't be bothered to worry about that now. Sherlock was hurt. He rolled up the divider and shut everyone else out of his mind.

The hospital was twenty minutes away. A helicopter might be faster, but the airport was even further away than the hospital. There was no point panicking. Sherlock had been hurt before. He had probably just shot himself in the foot playing with John's gun. He checked his phone. No updates. He needed to take his mind off of it and think of something else.

He closed his eyes and settled back into his seat concentrating on the smooth feel of leather rubbing across the back of his neck. A memory bubbled up unbidden. "Inappropriate," he said to himself as he ran his fingertips sensually across the leather surface.

That couch had been leather as well. Warm brown like the color of his eyes. It was smooth beneath his bare skin. The cool touch of it sliding beneath his back was almost more pleasant than the the warmth of the body next to his. It had been with his school teacher, how cliché! He had been young and brilliant with a full head of ruddy brown hair on his shoulders. He had been curious and the teacher had been eager.

The first time had been on the leather couch in the teacher's office. The second, spread out on his bed, a curled up quilt under the small of his back, and sweat pouring down his forehead because the window was shut and the curtains were closed despite the heat of the day. It had not been an unpleasant experience, the warm touch of skin against skin, the rough prick of small hairs under his tongue. It was pleasant how powerful he felt. He loved the way his teacher panted at the sight of him. The way his voice alone could make him shake and shudder.

He didn't mind the third time, pushed up against the wall of the classroom, the teacher biting his own hand to keep from crying out. What he did mind was his teacher's complete lack of discretion. It was one thing to have relations with one's teacher. It was quite another thing to have been known to have done so. The teacher's eyes strayed to him in the middle of lessons. Sometimes he paused and licked his lips. His looks, his actions, his voice, were tells obvious enough for even the idiot students at his school to notice. He wasn't going to let his future be ruined by the man, so he applied to another school, a more prestigious one that would get him one step closer to his ultimate goal of a job in the British government.

The school accepted him, of course, but the teacher wouldn't just let him go. He cornered him against the door, one hand on his thigh as he spoke of passion and true love. Mycroft slid out of his grasp and left the room. He told everything to the headmaster, and was at the new school within the week. The teacher was dismissed, but the rumors followed him in whispers from one school to the next. Mycroft Holmes had broken the heart of someone who loved him. Mycroft Holmes had a heart made of ice.

"If only that were true," Mycroft said.


	2. Chapter 2

They reached the emergency entrance and he slid out of the car, flanked by his security and his assistant who went ahead of him distracting those who tried to stop him from rushing through the hall toward the operating theater. John Watson was leaning against a wall. He looked up as Mycroft approached. Mycroft had made arrangements for his brother to be taken to the teaching theatre. It had the newest equipment, and a glass-fronted observation room. John crowded in behind him as did his assistant until he motioned for her to leave.

John's attempt at a greeting was forgotten when the doctors huddled over Sherlock's body calling out for equipment to restart his heart. Mycroft's heart seemed to beat louder in his chest as if it were attempting to beat for the two of them. The body lay still on the table. They called 'clear', and shocked the heart which had stopped. Another shock and wait. Another and another.

It wasn't the first time that Mycroft had found Sherlock's body lying unresponsive below him. His first year in college, Sherlock had fallen out of contact. Mycroft had gone to his room and opened the door to find his body lying still on the floor.

He had thought him dead then. His body was too small and thin to be real. He'd fallen on his knees, mouth open in shock. It was several minutes before he'd had the good sense to check Sherlock's pulse at his throat, then he'd cursed himself for the delay as he called for the ambulance.

He'd held his brother in his arms looking down at his tear-stained face. He should never have let him go to university so young. He'd opened his eyes and whispered Mycroft's name. Only then had Mycroft learned how to breathe again.

"He left me," Sherlock whispered, his voice harsh from crying "he left me when I told him what I felt. He said that I was disgusting. That he'd only ever hung out with me because of a bet. He said they all hate me, and he most of all. He said that he only pretended to be my friend to get dirt on his teachers. He blackmails them to get better grades."

His eyes fluttered then, and Mycroft grasped him tighter. "Sherlock please tell me what you took. It's important."

Sherlock closed his eyes pulling himself tight against his brother's shoulder. "I thought that he was my friend, but he said that a freak like me would never have a friend."

"Sherlock! Tell me now! What. Did. You. Take?"

"Morphine. And a little cocaine."

"You mixed the drugs?"

"I took morphine for the pain, but I didn't like the dull feeling so I just gave myself a little boost."

"Sherlock, you could have killed yourself!"

"The night is young."

"This is no time to joke."

"Go away, Mycroft. I want to die."

"No, you need to keep conscious."

"I'm tired."

"Sherlock, get to your feet!"

Mycroft tugged on Sherlock's arm, but he brushed him away turning over and hiding his face in a sodden blanket. Mycroft wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled him to his feet. He was much too light.

"Have you been eating at all?"

"Leave me alone."

"No!" Mycroft pushed open the door. "Walk, will you! We just need to get down these steps. I think I can hear the sirens."

"Why don't you go away, Mycroft? Leave me here."

"I'll never leave you alone, Brother mine."

"I thought you didn't like jokes. Why should I go on? No one will ever love me."

"You're wrong."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Mycroft's attention was brought back by a sudden eerie silence. All of the doctors were walking away. He looked at John confused.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"He's dead," John said voice cracking. "They just called time of death. Sherlock's gone."

Gone?

What did he mean by that word, 'gone'?

Could he mean…?

Mycroft looked down at the body. He could see him better now that they had stepped away. The hole in his chest was so small. How was it possible that such a small hole could have ended such a large life?

It can't be true.

He looked at the body on the table, then he turned away. He walked out through the door, and kept walking. Unable to count the steps in front of him. Unable see the world around him. All he saw was his brother's unmoving body.

When he came back to himself he was in a stairwell. He pushed open the door and found himself on the roof standing beneath the London sky at night. He closed his eyes feeling the wind blow through his hair. There were sirens in the distance and the faint smell of smoke.

He had smelled the smoke all of the way from the front step of the house. He had stepped outside to see what kind of trouble his brother had got into only to stiffen in fear when he realized that the smell of smoke and his brother were likely correlated. He ran through the gate, and down the road, but realizing that the smell was getting weaker, he turned and went back toward the house. He cut across the lawn skirting mother's rosebushes as he rushed toward the shed which had been Sherlock's hiding place of late. Mycroft would often find him there working on 'experiments'. He claimed that he wanted to be a scientist, a far cry better than his first suggestion that they become pirates.

He tried to increase his speed, but his girth slowed him down. At fourteen years old Mycroft was already ten stone. The pain in his side grew, but he kept running even though the sound of his own breath filled his ears.

He burst through the door of the shed to find Sherlock stomping on a burning blanket. The wall behind him was ablaze, the fire climbing up the wooden wall toward the roof.

Sherlock looked up guiltily, "It wasn't my fault."

Mycoft glanced at the shelf above Sherlock's head. It held several old aerosol cans and a car battery. Yellow flames licked the underside of the shelf turning the labels black. Mycroft's mouth opened in horror as he looked at the boy below, imagining him wreathed in flame. He leaped forward grabbing Sherlock and wrapping his arms around him as he turned to the door.

There was a popping sound as the top blew off one of the cans. Mycroft pushed open the door but tripped on the rim to fall forward heavily on top of his brother. He used his arm to break his fall cradling his brother's precious head as they landed heavily, all of the wind knocked out of him. The door bumped against his thigh. It was propped open by his prone form which was caught in the doorway. His little brother struggled beneath him screaming, "Get off, Mycroft! You're too fat. Let me go!"

At a hissing sound, Mycoft tensed pulling his brother under him.

"Mycroft! You're smothering me!"

"I'm protecting you," he said just before a loud explosion blew the roof off of the shed. The building collapsed in flames and burning chips fell on Mycroft's legs and back. He must have passed out for a moment because when he woke, Sherlock was standing over him, hands black from pushing away burning boards.

"Mycroft! Mycroft! Are you all right?" he screamed tugging on Mycroft's arms but unable to move him. Mycroft lifted his head and saw fragments of the shed scattered and burning all over the lawn. Fearing that there might be more things that could explode he pushed at Sherlock's hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, go."

"Mycroft! Get up. Mycroft!" the boy had cried voice shrill with panic.

Mycroft had pushed himself to his feet and grabbed Sherlock in his arms carrying him back to the house.

The door to the roof slammed open, and his assistant walked over and handed him his phone. He must have dropped it in the observation room. What she said shocked him out of his reverie.

"Sir! Your brother. He's alive.


	3. Chapter 3

The beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor comforted Mycroft as he sat in the hospital room beside Sherlock. He could have turned the monitor off, but hearing Sherlock's heartbeat made him realize that his own heart was beating too.

John pushed into the room then, eyes focused on Sherlock. He visibly relaxed as he watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"Who shot him?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know. We were at Magnussen's. Someone had knocked out his staff. Sherlock went ahead as I tended to Janine, when I got there, he was already on the floor."

"Was it Magnussen?"

"No, someone had knocked him out too."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I wasn't looking for clues. I was a bit preoccupied at the time."

"Stay with him," Mycroft said rising to his feet as he pushed toward the door.

"Of course," John said. "Where else would I go?"

He remembered the first time he'd seen him on the CCTV feed.

"Get into the car, Dr Watson."

The man had been belligerent, just on the edge of fighting, but he'd held himself together, Doctor John Hamish Watson, distinguished surgeon, crack shot, and devotee of his brother Sherlock. It was too good to be true. It was also worrying. A colleague, a flatmate. The way he smiled at the man! He'd tried to have friends before, and it did not go well. Mycroft watched them carefully, as closely as he dared.

They had formed a sort of alliance. Both of them serious in their desire to keep Sherlock from recklessly killing himself. It had been strained by the fall. After his brother faked his death, John had not initiated any contact with Mycroft. He had blamed him for Sherlock's faked death. Even given all of the misdirections, John didn't know how right he was.

It took a while to reach Magnussen. He had retreated to the safety of his home, Appledore. He showed him into a room that looked out onto his garden. White furniture, how pretentious. Mycroft tried not to show any satisfaction at the sight of a bandage on his head.

"Mycroft Holmes, such a rare pleasure to meet with you. What brings you out of your inner sanctum to meet with me at my humble home."

Mycroft looked at the splendor around him but could not spare even a smirk at the joke as he said, "You know why I came. I want to know who shot my brother."

"Ah! Such fire! I have never seen the like from the man everyone says is made of ice. Finally, your pressure point is revealed, your baby brother, Sherlock."

"You haven't answered my question. I want to know who shot him."

"Excuse me, Mr Holmes, but my memory is a bit foggy. I did suffer from a concussion."

"There's nothing wrong with your memory. There never is. Just tell me his name."

A smile stirred at the edges of Magnussen's lips. "It is delicious. So terrifyingly unexpected, like a fine wine found in a junk heap. You would never guess who, or perhaps you would considering it was your work that led to this development. Yes, the irony is so sweet."

"I'm waiting."

"Dear Mycroft, I can call you Mycroft now, can't I? It's just, I feel that I know you so much better now, and it is so rare to converse with someone whose vices are even greater than my own."

"The name."

"Oh no, I am enjoying this far too much. Your brother, he is so soft, so innocent. I am surprised that someone like you could raise someone like him. His hands so fine, his cheekbones so delicate, and the surprise on his face. How much greater it would be if he knew all of the things that you have done to keep him close to you. Oh yes, I know about Redbeard."

"You know nothing."

"I know everything, and I could tell him how you've manipulated him throughout his life. I thought at first it was only to keep him safe. To keep him from being a liability to you. But now, your presence here, it only confirms the theory that I had not even dreamed to be true. The ice man has a heart, and that heart is deposited in his brother. "

"Was it you? Did you order him shot?"

Magnussen's smile grew wider. "You're grasping at straws. You know that you cannot make me talk, and so you are hoping that my expressions will give you clues to the killer. You should know better. Tells like that only work on people who feel guilt or fear. I am not afraid, and I never feel any guilt."

"What is it you want?"

"I want nothing, Mr Holmes. I have everything that I could ever want here, and now I have information that you need. That means I have you."

Mycroft rose to his feet. "Then I have no reason to stay here. Good Day, Mr Magnussen."

"He was so gallant, so righteous in his pursuit of justice, like a lion. Such a pretty, honest man. How shocked he would be if he were ever to find out the lustful darkness that abides in the heart of his closest kin. So delicious. I applaud you. Lick him for me, will you. I will imagine you both in my dreams, the first time your warm hand stroked his soft, perfect skin. How old was he then fifteen, thirteen, younger. Oh, you are a bad man, Mycroft Holmes and I am so glad to finally see it for myself."

Mycroft looked back once, face dark with disgust before walking down the steps and out of this accursed place. He wanted to go back to the hospital, but he felt tainted by Magnussen's words, so he went back to his own home instead.

John Watson's voice on the phone was steady and calm. "He's stable, the doctors are predicting a full recovery. The bullet missed the heart. Thank goodness the gunman was such a bad shot. Do you have any word on who it is?"

"Not yet, but I am pursuing all possibilities. I have my best men reviewing the CCTV tapes for any sign of the killer."

"Shooter, not killer. Sherlock isn't dead."

Mycroft took a deep breath. He had needed someone to say it. "No he's not. You'll stay with him?"

"You don't need to ask."

Mycroft put the phone down on his dresser and began to unbutton his waistcoat. He had been going for thirty hours straight. He could afford a bit of a nap now. He kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed closing his eyes to sleep, but the memories wouldn't stop visiting him.

He'd been almost a full year away at school when he had finally returned for the summer holidays. Mother fussed over him and then went out to get something to cook for dinner. He had gone upstairs intending to do some reading, but he had been drawn to Sherlock's room.

He opened the door and stood for a moment soaking it all in. The smell of dirty socks and new notebooks, the sharp scent of spilled acetone on the desk. He walked around the room, tracing the surfaces with his finger. A yearbook sat open on the desk. He looked down at all of the photographs seeing a familiar face, Sherlock's face, but longer and thinner than he remembered. He was in the chess club. Surprising! He looked at Sherlock's eyes for a clue to his emotions, but he glared straight at the camera. The other members sat a bit away from him, they turned slightly toward each other in a friendly way. They were friends, but Sherlock was still an outsider. Mycroft turned away walking toward the window.

A collection of skulls sat drying on the windowsill: A squirrel, a raven, a dove, and a cat. The newest one was the cat. It was fresh, maybe a week old? The bed was mussed as if Sherlock had just risen moments ago, but he couldn't have. This was a school day.

Mycroft sat on the bed, his three-piece suit incongruous in this setting. He slouched, relaxing as he hadn't felt able to all year. Then he fell back onto the bed, his head slapping against the pillow. He smiled remembering a poem from his childhood.

 _What are little boys made of?_

 _What are little boys made of?_

 _Snips and snails and puppy dog tails,_

 _that's what little boys are made of._

He rolled his head to the side and breathed in the smell of his brother. It smelled like sweat and blood, and grass, and reckless haste. He closed his eyes, glad to be home at last.

At the sound of footsteps Mycroft rose to his feet, Slicking down his hair and turning to face the door just as his brother entered. Sherlock paused on the threshold.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too, brother. Sherlock, you must work on your social skills."

"Why? It's just you. You've lost some weight."

"And you've gained some height," Mycroft replied looking down at the young man whose forehead had now reached the level of his lips.

"Nice suit. The waistcoat makes it look old fashioned, but it sort of works on you. You're worried that they won't take you seriously if you look too young. Probably true. Still, you would look even better if you lost a few more pounds."

"Since when are you a fashion critic?" Mycroft drawled even as he jut out his chest in pride at the complements. "If I've lost a few pounds, I wish you would find some. You are as thin as a broom handle."

"Mom says I'm in the midst a 'growth spurt'. She's full of all kinds of pithy sayings this year. She's suddenly decided that she's been a neglectful mother and she wants to try to make it up to me by giving me long held words of wisdom. Why were you lying in my bed?"

"I was tired."

"Then why not lie in your own bed? It's made. Mother keeps your room like a shrine! Her genius son in Government Service. I suggested that she take up sewing and chuck all your stuff out, but she refused."

"Have you considered that I might prefer things a little more messy?"

"Like that embassy raid last week? It had your fingerprints all over it."

"Why Sherlock, what have you been reading?"

"This and that."

"Have you finally developed an interest in public affairs? I thought that you were planning to read Chemistry next year if Oxford will accept your request for early admission."

"They've already accepted it." Sherlock tossed his school bag on the floor and flopped down onto the bed. "Uhg! It smells like _Versace for men_. If you want to convince them that you aren't as young as you actually are, you might consider changing your scent."

"To what?"

"Something that smells old, a British cologne perhaps."

"There are no good British colognes."

"Then make one. You should smell like old leather and musty law books. Stacks of money and the smoke from old castle fireplaces."

"I'll see what I can do. I notice you joined the chess club."

"They made me do it. I had to win their stupid chess tournament for them in exchange for forgetting about my stealing the headmaster's toilet seat."

"You stole the headmaster's…."

"I told you, it was taken care of."

Mycroft sat at the desk, and looked down at the photograph again, "So, Sherlock… have you made any friends?"

"Have you?"

Mycroft sneered, "I don't have friends, only people whom I can use and those I can't."

"The same. Now that you're here, let's play a game."

"Well, my chess is a bit rusty, but I think that I could defeat you in, let's say, fifteen moves?"

We're playing Uno."

"What?"

"It's a card game, and I think that I can defeat you in one hundred and thirty one hands."

"Where do you find these games, Sherlock? You continue to try to embarrass me with your game choice."

"Hey, I'm not the one who made the stupid promise."

"You have a board. Why can't we just play chess?"

"Because they kicked me out of the club for insulting a judge and getting our team disqualified in the semi-finals."

"Sherlock, will you never learn to play well with others?"

"Why should I have to when I have you?"

* * *

A phone call woke him.

"Mycroft," John's voice was tense.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Sherlock is missing."

Police inspector Lestrade stood in front of his desk. Sherlock had apparently fled exactly at the same time as one of his targets in Poland. He looked up from the screen as the silver-haired man said, "He has three known bolt holes."

"Five known boltholes," Mycroft corrected him. "There's the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery." He waved the man away waiting until the door was closed before ordering the strike.

Sherlock was ill. Moving in this state was a desperate measure that could end up with his wounds reopening, and him bleeding to death. Mycroft watched as the dots converged on the subject. When the first dot finally blinked out, he turned away to consider his brother's choice.

The situation and Magnussen's comments suggested that the shooter was someone that Sherlock knew, someone that he was surprised at. Not John. The evidence that he was at Sherlock's side were conclusive, besides, no gun was located at the office, and his men had combed through the entire place. A toothpick couldn't have escaped that search, much less a gun.

There was an alert, he turned back to the screen to see that Sherlock's credit cards had been used. A glance at the camera had confirmed that it wasn't him that used it. One of his homeless network no doubt, but what would Sherlock need with a bottle of expensive perfume?

Oh no. He was confronting the killer himself. Mycroft rose to his feet but his path was blocked by a group of diplomats who insisted on being updated on the Polish situation. He texted his assistant to put a watch on Baker Street and took the men into his office.

Having just escaped from the briefing, he was in his car headed for the Diogenes club when a text came alerting him that Sherlock was back at Baker street, and that an ambulance had been called. He redirected the ambulance to the closest military hospital. If the killer (no shooter) was someone Sherlock knew, then he needed to limit access to him. He had the best heart surgeon in London helicoptered there and he waited at the door for Sherlock's ambulance to arrive.

He brushed off the attempts of his assistants to offer him a chair. He wasn't an invalid. He had been a remarkably healthy boy. His only period of bed rest had been after the fire.

They were faded now, but the burns on his back had been deep and ugly. The skin was discolored, and there had been too many people in the room.

"Will it heal?" Mother'd asked the doctor who prodded painfully at the sores.

"Yes, it will heal, but there will be scarring. The marks on the skin will likely never go away."

"No more backless dresses for you, Mycroft," Uncle Rudy said with a grin that caused his mother to glare sharply at her brother.

"Haven't you someplace better to be, Rudy?" his mother asked pointedly.

"Where else should I be but with my sick nephew who just saved his brother from a fiery death?"

The doctor interrupted them then saying, "I've immobilized the forearm. The ulna is broken, but it was a straight break and it should heal in time, but what he needs now is rest!"

Mother locked eyes with the doctor for a moment before informing the others that it was time for them all to leave. They filed out of the room, leaving only the doctor behind with Mycroft. After spreading a salve for the pain over his back and legs, the doctor gently laid a cool sheet over him, covering his legs but leaving his back exposed to the air. Then he turned out the light leaving Mycroft alone.

His rest was interrupted by the turning of the door handle. Mycroft looked up to find Sherlock staring through the partially opened door. He crept inside closing the door softly as he pattered over to Mycroft's side.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I read about how an asbestos blanket could put out a fire, and I wondered if a regular blanket could too. It got a bit out of hand."

Mycroft turned his head to look at Sherlock. His black curls were wild. His eyes were red. "I'm the reason you were hurt."

"Were you hurt Sherlock?"

"No. Just a little burn on my hand. Nothing like..." he gestured to Mycroft's back, then frowned hanging his head.

"Good. I'm glad that you're safe."

"Mycroft, I..." The boy's bright blue eyes began to water. Mycroft reached out a hand and touched his forearm.

"Are you trying to say 'Thank You'?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"There is no need. It's my job to protect you, brother mine."

Sherlock stepped closer and reached out a hand to touch Mycroft's back. He softly traced his fingers along the damaged skin. Mycroft closed his eyes. The touch was both painful and pleasant. He savored the bittersweet flavor of it. Even as young as fourteen he had been intimidating and off-putting. As a result, he was rarely ever touched. Sherlock was the only one to stand so close. The only one to touch him body and soul. It stung, but he couldn't help but smile.


	4. Chapter 4

When the ambulance arrived, Sherlock was unconscious. The doctor came forward asking questions of the paramedics who told him that his heartbeat had been irregular and he was bleeding. They wheeled him into the surgery where he stayed for almost five hours.

John Watson called an hour into the operation, and Mycroft sent a car to get him. He couldn't imagine why it had taken him so long to call but he had no time for him now. He had Sherlock's operation on one screen while he handled other business on the phone. A military operation was going on in Eastern Europe that demanded his direct supervision. He had taken over a secure boardroom as his impromptu office. He wasn't leaving the hospital until he saw with his own eyes that Sherlock was all right. Even now, his men were doing a security screen on the hospital staff. They were all ex-military, so it was quicker. He would have no more escapes, no more threats to his brother's life.

The surgeons were successful in stopping the bleeding. When they closed up the chest cavity, Mycroft let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock was wheeled into a secure recovery room, and Mycroft sat beside him listening to the steady beat of his heart. He sat back in his chair, letting the reassuring sound calm him. Then he closed his eyes.

* * *

He had been only a child when he had pushed open the door to find Sherlock clutching his stuffed dog toy to his chest. Why Mother had thought it funny to name her son's toy after a nuclear weapon, he would never guess.

Mycroft sat down at Sherlock's side. His face was turned away as he tried to hide his tears.

"What's wrong, Billy?" Mycroft asked.

"Ronnie left."

"Ronnie who?"

"Ronnie from school. He promised to play pirates with me, and I waited all weekend but then he didn't come back yesterday, and today the teacher said that he wasn't ever coming back. He was my friend, but he didn't come back."

Mycroft lowered his voice. "Ronnie won't be coming back. He's dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, mother didn't want us to know, but I heard them talking. Someone kidnapped him to get information from another scientist in mother's lab. When he refused to tell them, they killed Ronnie."

"Why?"

"I don't think they meant to kill him, just to hurt him, but it went wrong."

"But if it was Ronnie's dad who had the information, why did they take Ronnie?"

"Because Ronnie's father cared about his son. They felt that he'd care more about getting his son back than the information."

"I care! I wanted Ronnie to play with me."

"I know. Billy, things will likely change for us from now on. Mother is being sent to a more secure base, and we will be going with her. It is very likely that there won't be any other children there."

"Then who will I play pirates with?"

"I will play with you."

"You won't!" Sherlock said sticking his lip out as he turned away. "You won't play with me. You think that playing games is stupid!"

"I don't."

"Yes you do! I won't go. I'll run away, and find people who will play with me."

"Don't be a Silly Billy"

"Stop calling me that! I don't like it. And I'll run away if I want to. I know how to get past teacher. It's easy."

"But Billy, that isn't logical. If you run away then maybe they will kidnap you!"

"I don't care. I want someone to play with."

"I'll play with you."

"No you won't. You'll find something else to do, and you'll tell me to go away. I will go away. I'll go where people will play with me."

"No, Billy don't try to leave. I promise that I will play with you, whenever you want to, whatever you want. I will play with you, I promise, just don't leave me! I mean... don't leave us."

Billy turned to face him. "Do you mean that, Mycroft? You'll really play with me, whenever I want, whatever I want?"

"Unless something life and death takes precedence, I will take time to play with you, whatever game you want."

"Then, let's play pirates!"

"Alright," Mycroft said, and Sherlock rose to his feet a crooked smile forming on his lips. He picked up his hat and placed it on his head, then he grabbed his toy swords and handed one to Mycroft. He placed the stuffed dog on the table and said, "Redbeard is Redbeard the pirate, of course, and you are the evil captain Mycroft of the Spanish Navy."

Mycroft stood on his knees and waved the sword vigorously, "Okay. Who are you then?"

"I'm Sherlock the pirate."

"Sherlock?"

"It is my name isn't it?"

"Of course, but."

"And I don't like you calling me Silly Billy. I want to be called Sherlock the pirate from now on."

"But Billy..."

"Sherlock!."

"All right, Sherlock the pirate. Even though I've agreed to play with you. I won't let you take my hoard of Spanish doubloons."

The child smiled wide and jumped onto his bed bouncing and waving his sword as he cried. "Oh yes I will! I will ram your hull and hang ye from the mast. I will slice ye up to feed the fishes! Defend yourself you lily-livered coward!"

* * *

John was sitting by Sherlock's side when Mycroft finally woke. He was strangely deflated, curled in his chair as if it was he who had been shot.

"John? What's wrong?"

"It was Mary. Mary shot Sherlock. She's an assassin. She's been lying to us all this time, since I met her. "

"But why? Why would she shoot Sherlock? He wasn't her target."

John lifted his head and turned toward Mycroft. "What do you mean 'he wasn't her target'? Did you know that Mary was an assassin?"

"I just meant, why was she there with Magnussen?"

"No, you said that he wasn't her target. You know what she is. You've always known."

"John."

"Did you know who she was when you let me get engaged to her? Did you fail to tell your own brother that his best friend was marrying an assassin? Did you send her to kill him?"

"No! How can you think that. Sherlock is my brother!"

"And what does that word mean to you?"

"It means that I will always protect him."

"You didn't protect him from Moriarty. You told Moriarty what he needed to destroy your brother what kind of protection was that? And Mary, maybe you don't care about me. Shit thing to let me walk into, but your own brother! You let him walk into that room blind. Your own brother."

"I told him to stay away from Magnussen. How could I know…?"

"If you don't get out of this room this instant, I swear, I will kill you with my bare hands."

Mycroft glared down at John who smiled up at him. He weighted his odds, then he turned and left the room.

The guard stood to attention as he left.

"Give Dr Watson whatever he needs, but don't let anyone else into that room until you've heard from me first."

"Yes sir."

Mycroft entered his car and headed for his office.

Sherlock hadn't woken yet, but he could remember when he had looked at him with eyes like John's. Eyes full of hate a betrayal.

"I know about Redbeard," he'd said just as Mycroft had entered the door. Sherlock was strapped down after another drug binge had almost cost him his life, and his eyes had bored into Mycroft's flesh like a hot poker.

"Which Redbeard?"

"You know which one."

"You're not a child anymore."

"No, I'm not a child. And neither were you when you had him killed."

"Put to sleep. He was ill."

"He wasn't ill. Victor's half sister worked in the clinic where it happened. She heard them remark upon it. The illness wasn't fatal, but they put the dog to sleep anyway. Mother wouldn't have done it, much less father, so it had to be you who convinced them to kill Redbeard."

"And why would I do that, Sherlock?"

"You always wanted me to be like you, didn't you? All my life you've shaped me, taught me, dictated my feelings to me to the point that sometimes I don't know where your thoughts end and mine begin. I am your toy, your creation. You put me together from scraps like Frankenstein's monster. I loved Redbeard, and you couldn't allow that. Love is a weakness. You couldn't stand that my heart wasn't as cold and twisted as yours, so you had him killed."

"Sherlock, you're delirious?"

"Am I? I think that I'm finally seeing the truth. All of those people who might have become my friends, moving away. Once is normal, twice can be coincidence, but how many times has it been now, Mycroft? Was it all you? Were you the one who made Victor leave me?"

"His father was the one who made Victor chose between his inheritance and you. He had divorced one wife for not giving him an heir. He wouldn't tolerate that heir carrying on with a man. Where would his precious family name be then?"

"There was no 'carrying on'. He was my friend...We were best friends."

"The fact that he chose money and position over your 'friendship' should tell you that he was undeserving of your affections."

"Who are you to determine who my friends are?"

"Sherlock. You are just trying to distract me from the fact that you have yet again put your life in danger. Mother..."

"Please don't try to pretend Mother had anything to do with this. Let us talk honestly for once, Mycroft. Did you give the order that my dog, Redbeard be put down?"

Mycroft looked down at his feet and clutched his hand before answering, "Yes."

Sherlock blinked his eyes. "Why?"

Mycroft looked down at his hands. Then he looked up into Sherlock's bright blue-green eyes. "All that I do, All that I have ever done, I did it because I love you, brother mine."

"Liar!" Sherlock screamed. You wouldn't know love if it bit you on the arse. You killed my dog for love? Love of whom? The only person you love is yourself, your pride, your ego? You think yourself above everyone in the world, including me, but because I'm your brother. It isn't enough for me to be normal like the rest of them. I have to be special. Something other than ordinary. The brother of Mycroft Holmes can be no less than a genius, and since the only person you consider worth aspiring to is yourself, you tried to make me into you. Well I'm not you! Mycroft. I'll never be you! And I'm tired of being your lab rat. I won't let you keep experimenting with my life!"

"I'm not. Sherlock, I don't want you to be anything other than what you are."

"Do you even hear the things that come out of your mouth? Of course you want me to be different. You don't want me to take drugs, you don't want me to have friends. You don't want me to interact with anyone. Well you've won, because I don't want to interact with anyone anymore, Mycroft, especially not you!"

"But Sherlock..."

The door is behind you, brother mine. Don't let it hit you on the way out."

Mycroft stared into eyes sharp with hate and anger. He laid a hand on Sherlock's arm, but he flinched in his restraints. Mycroft lifted his hand.

"You're wrong."  
"GO!"

Mycroft stepped back, but when he didn't go, Sherlock closed his eyes and feigned sleep. A glance at the monitor told Mycroft that his heart rate was racing. When the door opened, a concerned nurse coming to check on the patient, he had turned and fled.

"You are wrong, brother, so wrong. I only ever wanted to keep you safe.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock finally was awake, Mycroft busied himself with his work. He couldn't face him.

It was evening on the fifth day when he finally got a text from Sherlock.

 **Mycroft, I want to play. -SH**

 **There's a life and death crisis. I couldn't possibly leave work. -MH**

 **Liar, I checked with your assistant first. You promised – SH**

The room was soundproofed and there were no recording devices not even heart monitors. Sherlock was propped up in his bed. John sat beside him. At a nod, John rose to his feet to leave glaring daggers at Mycroft as he passed him. The door closed and Mycroft stood just inside. He looked down at his Italian leather shoes, willing his hands not to fidget. He was wearing his newest suit and his blue tie with matching pocket square. His scent was _Tradition_ , the one that he had commissioned at Sherlock's suggestion. Usually this was his armor, but now he felt naked. Sherlock was the one person who knew everything about him, well, almost everything.

He looked up slowly to find Sherlock watching him with a steady gaze. His eyes green under the fluorescent lights. He took a step forward and then another stopping a foot from Sherlock's bed.

Then he looked around. There was nothing here to play.

"Well, Sherlock. What are we playing today? Do you have a board hidden somewhere?"

"We're not playing that kind of game."

"Well then. What is the game called?"

"It's called Truth."

"You mean Truth or Dare?"

"No."

Mycroft's hand shook. He covered it with his other hand and then moved toward the chair and sat down. Then he looked up at Sherlock. "How do we play?"

"I ask you a question and you tell me the truth."

"That's hardly a game. What do I get out of it?"

"Your life."

Mycroft frowned, "Are you threatening me, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"You must know that you have no power here. With a single call on my phone, I can have you kept in here indefinitely."

"Go to the door and give the phone to John."

"And if I say no?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. The corner of his mouth turning up in a half smile. Sherlock looked back at him without blinking. He had dressed for the occasion in a burgundy shirt and trousers, even though he still lay in bed covered by a blanket. His gaze was steady and serious.

Mycroft swallowed, then he rose to his feet. When he opened the door, John was standing beside it. He looked up. Then he took the phone from Mycroft who closed the door firmly before walking back to stand at the foot of the bed.

"You have my attention now, Sherlock. What is it you wish to know?"

"Let's start with Mary. Who hired her?"

"That is a complex question. She's had many employers."

"Then who was the last?"

"A man named Robert Wall."

"And what did he hire her to do?"

"To get very close to a man and guard him from another man."

"Be specific. Which men?"

"She was to guard John Watson."

"Who was she guarding him against?"

"An assassin known only as M."

"Moriarty?"

"No.

"What was she to do if she met this M?"

"Kill him of course."

"And what were her instructions for John Watson."

"She was to … seduce him. To convince him to start dating again. Perhaps even to marry. She wasn't supposed to marry him herself, those certainly weren't her instructions."

"This Robert Wall, was he in your employ when he gave her these…. Instructions?"

Mycroft stared at his ring. "Yes."

"Did you instruct Robert Hall to hire her to do all of these things?"

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "So the reason that you knew that John was at that restaurant planning to propose to Mary was because you were getting regular reports?"

"I did not know that he would propose for certain. I only knew that he had bought the ring."

"You tried to delay my coming to London. You told me all sorts of reasons. You tried to delay me getting back until after he had proposed."

"Is that a question?"

"No. Simply a confirmation. You wanted John married and gone before I came back, Why?"

"Is that a question?"

"You know it is."

"Caring is not an advantage."

"Whose advantage? Caring is not to whose advantage, yours or mine?"

Mycroft looked down at his clasped hands, but said nothing.

"You must have known that Mary was in fact the assassin M. You paid her to defend John from herself."

"And she was successful." Mycroft said unconsciously twisting the ring on his finger. "I don't understand why you are worried."

"That ring. You started wearing it the year I transferred to Cambridge. What is it?"

"A ring, just a piece of jewelry. I have many such pieces, watches, tie pins, cufflinks."

"A person who wears rings because he likes them wears many rings. You wear only one. A gold one, like a wedding ring. Why?"

"Does a man need a reason to wear a piece of jewelry?"

"You do. Mrs Hudson thinks that you are secretly married to your assistant, but she's an idiot. You aren't married, but you've made a commitment like marriage, haven't you?"

"Sherlock, why am I being interrogated like this? What do you want?"

Sherlock moved the blanket and revealed the loaded gun in his hand. "When I first met John, I told him that you were my archenemy. I was joking then, but perhaps I was too hasty in my assessment."

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous. What are you planning to do? What do you want from me?"

"Are you married to James Moriarty?"

Mycroft rose to his feet, an expression of surprise on his face. Then he laughed. He laughed so hard that he had to lean on his knees to keep from falling.

"Married to James Moriarty? How hard did you hit your head when you fell? Do you think that his intellect even approaches mine? He put on a good show, but we were able to destroy his network in the end easily enough. No, I destroyed Moriarty because he fancied you. He would always talk of you, of his lewd attentions. I gave him enough rope to hang himself."

"You knew what he was going to do? How is that possible?"

"Sherlock, you met him. He was dangerously unstable. It wouldn't take much to push him over the edge."

"It was I who was pushed over the edge, straight off the roof at Barts."

"But you called me first, and we arranged your escape. Everything that he did has been undone."

"Do you think so? Do you honestly think so? What about John?"

"What about him?"

"He suffered horribly."

"That was your doing not mine."

"How so, when you admit that you maneuvered Moriarty to kill himself on that roof."

"Caring is not an advantage. How many times must I say if before you understand that it is true? John Watson suffered because he cared about you. I did my best to change it, but you are both stubborn. You don't realize that your affection for each other is a weakness."

"I don't think it is a weakness, it is a strength."

Mycroft lifted the corner of his mouth in an expression of scorn, "Did he convince you of that brother? Tell you that you are stronger together? What would a broken, useless man like that know?"

Sherlock sat up straighter. He put his legs on the side of the bed and rose to his feet, gun pointed at Mycroft's chest.

"What? Does it offend you that I talk of your 'partner' so? I knew the measure of him the moment I met him. No longer able to be a surgeon or a soldier, but he struggles on pretending he is both. Pretending to want a soft, gentle woman and a family when it is the last thing in the world that he actually aspires to. A man who does not know himself."

"And you claim to know yourself."

"Oh Sherlock, I know myself only too well. A thinking man in a world of goldfish. A man who desires power and position, but I can have none of it."

"But you have that."

"You call what I have now power? I have a minor position in the British Government when I should be a world ruler. I listen to idiots all day, helping them with their feeble plans. Have you never wondered why I would always play with you when you asked? All that I ever do is play. Fighting terrorists, influencing elections, seeking advantage in trade agreements, we are building sandcastles on the beach when we could be building pyramids to last the ages."

"You played with me because you promised."

"A promise given to a child long ago to keep him from crying? Have you ever wondered why I never broke that promise? Most people do break promises told to children. You already know the answer. What is it?"

"Caring is not an advantage."

"Finally, finally you understand! I could have been a Napoleon, an Alexander. I wanted to be, I wanted to bend them all to my will, to rule the world!"

"And why didn't you?"

"You know why," he said staring into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock stared back, eyes filled with pain and fear. "No, I don't understand. I don't understand at all."

Mycroft turned away. "I couldn't do anything too obvious or flamboyant because they all knew. Everyone knew that I had a weak point. They would destroy you, and that would destroy me."

"So are you saying that you kept yourself from taking over the world, that you consigned yourself to manipulating the government of one small country, because of me? Because I was your weak point."

Mycroft turned to him and smiled, "Yes."

He lowered the gun. "You...you can't be serious."

He shook his head. "Poor Sherlock. How I've loved you, but always so slow."

"But I ..."

"Don't blame yourself. It was Mother who conceived the plan. Have you never wondered why I can't ever forgive her? _'The child has decidedly sociopathic tendencies, and with his intellect he will very soon be able to manipulate all those around him to do his will.'_ Do you remember that quote?"

"It was from the report, my psychiatric report, when I was fifteen."

"Wrong. I let you believe it was yours. I let you find it in Mother's office, but it was my assessment from when I was six."

"Six?"

"Yes. A sociopath at six, and a genius. Mother could have let me loose and been parent to a conqueror, but she didn't want that, so she hatched a plan. She conceived you. She placed you into my arms, and from that moment I have loved you more than my own life."

"Mycroft."

"You knew in your heart that I was the one who kept the others from you. The one who got rid of everyone who tried to love you, from little Ronnie McIntyre to Redbeard to James Moriarty to Dr John Watson. I am the villain who has manipulated your entire existence. Mother gave you to me at birth, a deal with the devil to save the world."

Mycroft walked up to Sherlock and took his hand placing the gun against his own chest.

"Remember the stories that I used to read to you as a child?

 _Peter Peter Pumpkin eater_

 _Had a wife and couldn't keep her_

 _Put her in a pumpkin shell_

 _And there he kept her very well_.

I've kept you in a pumpkin shell your whole life. It is only fitting that yours is the hand that ends me."

Mycroft placed his hand over Sherlock's and smiled. "Do it, pull the trigger. Do it now. Kill me. It will end my suffering and yours."

Sherlock was shaking, unsteady on his feet. He felt the trigger moving under Mycroft's steady pressure and he watched horrified unable to prevent it. Mycroft's smile grew wider and Sherlock tried to pull away, but his illness had made him far too weak to escape his brother's grip.

The door slammed open then and John entered. "What's going on?" he demanded distracting Mycroft long enough for Sherlock to pull away. John was at his side in a moment helping him back into bed. Sherlock hung on him weak from the exertion.

"What have you done to him?" John asked.

Mycroft folded his hands and rubbed his ring, "It would be more accurate to ask what he has done to me."

"He's passed out. Why was he standing? He is only just recovering from surgery."

Mycroft kept his back to Sherlock, but he turned his head glancing at John from the corner of his eye. "John, take care of my brother. I give him to you on the condition that you never leave him again, in body or in heart, and believe me, John Watson, I will know if you fail me."

"He's fainted. What did you say to him?"

"Don't worry. It was simply the sedative given to him before I arrived. It was harmless. He will recover with nothing but a few hours memory loss. Don't worry, John. It was only a misunderstanding between brothers. All will be fine the next time we meet. If you will please excuse me, I have some sand castles to build."

Mycroft walked out of the room and out of the hospital. The waiting car took him swiftly to his office. He had an accident to plan. Maybe in exchange for a new passport and a trip out of the country, Mary Watson could finish the assassination that she had started. Magnussen needed to pay for the things that he had said about his beloved brother. And then afterwards, he would savor how to punish Mary.

He closed his eyes.


End file.
